Power Hour: Try It Once

With the music ringing in my ears, I have no hope of hearing the televisions which are strewn about the bar. As friends exhibit their determination to be heard, voices elevate until no one can hold a conversation. Yet people are still on cell phones. People sit at tables and chat. The bartenders still hear drink orders and can concentrate enough to produce correct change.

This is not my cup of tea. I am touched by many, but felt by none. Fellow students push their way toward the bathroom, or toward the exit. Ambidextrous girls somehow manage to carry four mixed drinks at a time to their friends, spilling very little along the way. A hand on my shoulder tells me to move forward, please.

Somehow I expected this place to smell like cigarettes, the unwelcome scent still lingering from years ago when people could still kill themselves slowly, with two methods at once. When the talented older men could puff a cigar in one corner of their mouth while sipping Jack with the other.

The strawberry lemonade, although girly, is good. I can't always taste the vodka, which is a plus. And making it taste even sweeter is the cost. Fifty cents for a mixed drink. I try a friend's drink, and it's also good. I like it better than mine, but I'm still satisfied.

No one is dancing. It's way too crowded here for that. But it doesn't matter to me, I'm not a dancer anyway. I never figured out how to get the right movements, when to lift my arms, when to bow and sway. There are no rules to modern dancing. Give me salsa, tango, something with a set pattern of steps. The lack of dancing does not contribute to stillness in this bar, the viscous masses of people constantly writhing, changing, trading positions, not giving your eyes enough time to focus.

Thank you power hour.